


And The Hunter Makes Three

by girl_wonder



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all about perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Hunter Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [А охотник будет третьим](https://archiveofourown.org/works/348699) by [Yozhik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yozhik/pseuds/Yozhik)



It was all about perspective. That was what she told herself and the house was old, falling down old, and it was built on unstable ground because even walking through it she could hear the creak and shift of something changing under it.

It was a tragic house, and the real estate said that she was required by law to reveal, but really it wasn't a big deal, and it was such a lovely house, but once upon a time someone had died in the sitting room and once upon a time, their daughter had killed themselves in the bathroom upstairs.

"Bathroom?" Jo asked.

"Well, bathtub," the real estate agent said.

It had windows that looked out through each other and in the distance she could see a garden, overgrown and messy. Inside it was dusty and damp. The chandelier swayed in the dining room, back and forth, back and forth, like the house was breathing.

"Fully furnished? Five hundred a month?" Jo asked.

It was paperwork then, and a skeleton key that didn't work on the front door. The paint was peeling on the porch and Jo actually kind of liked the effect, so she didn't put it on her to do list, just cracked the peeling ripples with her fingernail whenever she went inside and broke the chips between her fingers.

She left the front door open, colored glass reflecting sun shapes onto the walls as she got to work cleaning.

It was hard work; the house was old and felt its age in its timbers.

At the top of her to do list was the plumbing. The landlord hadn't answered her phone calls when she called to say that the only tap working was in the guest bathroom, and when she called into town the soonest a plumber could fit her in was Monday. But Jo's momma had been good with a toolset and Jo remembered the basics of it, at least enough to get clear running water in the kitchen, a slightly metallic tasting tap in her bathtub.

For toilets, she traced the problem back to a couple of solid clogs and then she bucked up and took off her good work shirt, put on a pair of yellow gloves and got to work.

She didn't like to think about what she'd unearthed, but by the time the plumber got around, she was out on the porch sipping some of her new water. It had cooled in the refrigerator after she'd boiled it and she was thinking about maybe making lemonade with the next pot.

"Well if there's anything else," he said, handing her his card. The look he gave the old house was resentful and fearful at the same time.

"You a local?" she called after him, but he was already too far away and after two days working she was too tired to chase after him.

Inside, the house breathed _in_ and a picture shifted on the wall, and _out_ and the hall mirror cracked when it fell to the ground, brightly shattering pieces all over the entryway like diamonds. Jo picked up a sliver and it slipped, cutting her raggedly across her palm. Only a scratch, but she couldn't stop thinking that the mirror was 7 years bad luck for the house.

Bandaging it in the kitchen, Jo considered making something for dinner before her 6 o'clock shift and then shrugged it off. Only one of the burners was working, the others were _snap, snap, snap_ into infinity, leaking gas into the room while they failed to spark.

*****

She liked the way that morning light hit the walls, shadows like stains across the off-white paint. It was summer and the light and dark weren't waxing or waning, just a constant sun-up, sun-down even keel.

Her job was a night shift and she'd worked more than enough of those at the roadhouse to know that it messed with your insides the way that few things could. It might be summer, but Jo felt awkward and uncertain about the season when she left in darkness and came home to dawn. She went to sleep right as the sun was rising and it felt a lot like she was living her life in reverse, backwards from everyone else around her.

After only a couple of hours of sleep, Jo crawled out of bed, unable to take the light.

She'd spend a few hours doing something that didn't make her think – something with sandpaper or a dust rag. She cleaned all of the couches with a machine she rented from the supermarket, dragged the pillows out onto the porch to dry while she made herself lunch at 5 in the evening.

Some days she rearranged the furniture once, twice, trying the foot table here, the sofa there. It was work that took consideration, took time. It was her house that groaned when the sofa settled onto a weak floorboard, it was her pipes that screamed and shook the walls when she flushed a toilet on the second floor.

Sometimes, the furniture rearranged itself again in some new way she'd never seen: tables upended, dining room chairs resting on the sofa. With a raw sort of smile, she just put it back to the position she wanted and let it be. She'd learned a lot of patience and knew she could wait it out.

*****

The weeds in the backyard didn't take to the lawnmower she'd managed to find in the garage, even after she'd taped the rusted holes over with duct tape. Half of the lawn was mowed unevenly, like a shoddy haircut when she looked at her watch and decided to call it quits.

Inside, the house was cool and resentful. A slight breeze hit her and she smelled rotten fruit, rotten meat. Groaning, she rushed to the kitchen to find her refrigerator emptied out, raw chicken sitting in a pool of warm sunlight on the linoleum. The fruit in the bowl was swarming with flies, dark shapes that moved in and out of the shadows left by the harsh sun.

She'd bought them only two days ago, they shouldn't already be rotten. The apples felt waxy and soft in her fingers and Jo tightened her lips with a slight sigh. It disturbed the flies and a swarm rose, buzzing unhappily near her hands.

The house sighed a little, the kitchen window shifting just enough to change the light and Jo pulled out a new black plastic trash bag and her well worn pair of yellow gloves. It was easy enough to clean up, and nothing compared to a bar brawl.

Jo remembered having to mop down the whole bar twice just to get the scent of Jack and beer out of the floor. She still had the calluses.

Looking at the food left in the pantry, she thought about making a meal of rice and canned beans, but it didn't seem worth the effort.

Instead, she changed into a tight tank top, a pair of _tip me well_ jeans and her old cowboy boots. It had been forever since she'd ridden a horse, but working in a bar made her think of her mother, plaid shirts and leather cowboy boots finely tooled with leather detail.

She arrived late, and Mac, the bartender put her on tables until one too many good old boys pinched her ass and he had to toss someone out.

Mac asked about the house, said that he lived a couple of miles away, closer to town, but if she ever needed anything...

With a slight shrug, Jo wiped tables and didn't ask about the history of her house. Mac didn't offer anything more and the night passed pretty quietly.

When she went home, she had to shove open the door again, use her shoulder and the key still didn't take to the lock, just got caught until she left it there, jammed in. Putting in new locks was at the top of her to-do list, but she knew she needed a bath first and a couple of hours of sleep, and maybe a beer herself. But she'd sacrificed beer in her budget so that she could have that fresh fruit and meat.

The bath got nearly warm and she put a pot of water on the stove, boiled it and added that to the water in the tub before she climbed in. She liked her baths hot, to warm her all the way down to her bones, to heat through the quiet cobwebs of shadow that collected living in a place like this.

She sank down into the water, her hair floating around her, her eyes shut and nose pinched until she needed air so badly she couldn't stand it.

Then, she pushed out, gasping and grinning, spilling water onto the floor. It made a harsh cracking sound where it hit the tiles and she grinned again, alone in the old, old, house.

"You can come out," she said.

The house inhaled, swaying the water in the tub.

"It's really ok," Jo said.

Exhaling, a pen rolled off her bedside table, fell to the floor.

Jo closed her eyes and breathed in sync with the house, a hypnotic rhythm of _in, out, in, out._

*****

Replacing the lock was fairly easy with the right tools, although she drove two towns over just so that no local would know which lock she'd bought.

The hardware store was shockingly modern compared to the house, compared to the bar. It was massive and themed orange and utilitarian, with walls to the ceiling full of boxes and pipes and pieces of wood.

She was looking at a basic lock, gold to match the fading white paint and she was thinking that she'd need to pick up a saw just in case when someone said, "You need any help with that?" from right behind her. Instinctively, she spun and hit, hard enough to make him lose his breath, hard enough so that she had time to dance out of the way before he even got up.

It was nothing special, just the same hit that Andy – who had two daughters her age and a few werewolf pelts under his belt -- had taught her when he'd found out that she'd started dating.

The guy looked up at her, irritated and embarrassed to have been laid out by a girl and Jo grabbed the first door handle and lock she could find and left. Her cheeks were burning and she didn't need the aisle of mirrored glass to tell her she was red with humiliation.

When she put in the new lock, screwed it in tight and tested the latch with a grin, she was relieved that she'd gone with the simple model. Less to attract attention, more stability.

It wouldn't help if someone tried to break in through the windows on either side of the door, but it did help her when she checked at night, flipping the deadbolt closed before going to bed. She spent a lot of time double checking just once more before she could crawl under her second hand blanket and sleep.

*****

After barely a week with the new lock, Jo let herself out of the truck, bone tired and tried to unlock the door only to have the key stick. It broke off in her hand when she tried to twist it and Jo couldn't help it after a nine hour shift, she just dropped down, head between her knees, hands resting over her neck.

For a moment, Jo pretended that it was her mother, resting a cool hand against Jo's neck like she did after Jo'd lost her heat at the track meet or after Jo'd lost her first boyfriend to that slut, Kristy.

By sheer willpower, she refused to cry.

"You're going to have to let me in eventually," she told the worn welcome mat that had come with the house. It was thick with dust and no longer even pretended to be useful.

Jo scraped some of the caked-on mud with her fingernail and the floorboards of the porch seemed to shift with the whole house like a deep sort of sigh, a long exhalation. The door swung open. It didn't quite crash into the wall, before settling crooked on its hinges.

Scratching at her neck, Jo finally stood and opened the screen, stepped inside, let it slam behind her. Closing the door quietly, she let herself lock the deadbolt. Really there wasn't any reason to lock it when she wasn't there.

The dark house was cool and she took off her boots in the bedroom on the sagging bed, let herself dig the heels of her palm deep into her eye sockets. Air flowed through the house quietly, ruffling the hair on her arms, and Jo sighed.

Tugging off her jeans, she settled under the quilt and thought that tomorrow she'd need to pick up a new lock.

*****

Later, when she woke to the sharp light of sunrise in her filthy window, she smelled bacon and eggs, the memory of mornings past pulling her feet onto the cool wooden floor.

Downstairs, around the corner, and in the kitchen, Jo sat in front of a plate, white china she was sure she didn't have, and ate delicious eggs and crisp bacon.

The sun was on the other side of the house away from the kitchen and she was in a tank top and flannel bottoms, so she didn't notice the drop in temperature. She just looked up and saw her, a girl half a foot shorter than Jo, hair braided on each side of her face in pigtails.

"Thanks," Jo said.

The girl breathed in time with the house, _in, out_. "You already eat?" Jo asked, looking towards the stove, but when she glanced back the girl was gone.

Jo shrugged and grabbed her purse on her way out the door.

Halfway out the door, Jo turned back and said, "You want me to pick up anything?"

No answer, but Jo didn't expect more than breakfast.

In the hardware store, she picked up some new wallpaper, some new paint and a few tools she didn't already have in the blue toolbox her mother had given her for her birthday. The woman at the counter was tapping her pen on the crossword puzzle, counting boxes and then frowning.

Jo only saw one word filled in.

"Did you find that house you were looking for?" the woman asked, ringing up the total.

"Yeah," Jo said. She held up the roller. "Trying to fix it up a little."

"Good luck," the woman said, her lips twitching. "Used to be a nice place, you know?"

Jo shrugged; the house hadn't looked nice for years, she could tell that by the solid cement of grime and dust on the windowsills. The house was like the town, worn, haunted by years that were already dead and gone. It was why she chose it out of all the other places you go after...

Well. After.

*****

The house didn't have a phone line, didn't have a fuse that would survive a lamp and the bedside clock on the same plug, so Jo dug around in the attic until she came up with an old fashioned wind-up alarm, the type with golden bells and a real echo when it sounded.

She wound it after her shifts and sometimes thought that she was more like the clock than she wasn't. Her gears were being wound by the motion of fill a pitcher, drop it off, pick up the empties, repeat.

Mac was pretty good at his job, he'd been at it since high school, he told her. Jo liked working with him, liked that he didn't look down her shirt when he was talking to her. She liked that Sue, the other waitress, seemed to trust him like an older brother.

Once, when he startled her in the back as she was picking up a new case of beer, he'd stood back, nearly outside the room and said, "Jo... Is there... Did someone..."

The false starts were making her flush – she knew what he was asking and was humiliated and relieved that he didn't think it was him. The light was overhead and she knew that the shadow was blocking the blush high on her cheeks.

She nudged the case with the toe of her boot and waited for him to think of a question he wanted answered.

"Is there anyone I should be watching out for? Anyone who comes 'round asking for you?"

At first Jo almost said, "No," and then she stopped. The image of Sam choked her, with the memory of his hand around her wrist, his body pressed up against her back and that feeling of cold in her gut, her blood running like ice through her arms.

Instead, she blinked. "This tall kid..." but she trailed off. There was nowhere to go from there.

Mac nodded, without words and said, "How about you go do the bussing, I'll get the case."

The inside of the bar was a shock of warmth compared to the cold storeroom.

*****

She went into town once for new groceries, now that hers weren't spoiling themselves she needed them less. The two bags of pasta and beans fit neatly against her hips like the bucket she used to bus tables.

Outside of the market, the sky loomed large, an envelope of blue nothing that cut the town off from the rest of the world. There was only one road in and one road out, an interstate that ran against the edge of the high school and then branched off like a violent river.

Jo drove back to her house, pulled the curtains shut and got into bed to nap. The groceries sat on the table, still in their bags, she could see them in her mind, settling like the rest of the house.

If she pulled the covers over her head, it was almost like night. Still, she shivered, and went to run another bath.

The girl was sitting at the edge of her bed when she came up the stairs, carefully balancing the boiling water. The stairs creaked under Jo's careful steps, a one two dance between her and the house. It had survived this long without human occupants, and having someone inside the house and Jo felt like an invader on foreign soil.

The house had gotten used to its loneliness, had become solitary. It had forgotten that it was built for people.

"Hi," Jo said, watching out of the corner of her eyes, her focus on the steaming water in her hands.

The girl said nothing but nudged the bathroom door all the way open for Jo.

"Thanks," Jo said.

She didn't say anything else until she went to work. Work was what you did with your idle hands, what you did to distract idle hands from idle thoughts, idle hands from idle memories. Jo's mother had used to put hunters to work when they'd been sitting at the counter too long, their hands tracing articles for hours, until their fingers were stained with newsprint.

Jo's mother would say, 'Hey, here, come lift this' and 'I need some help chopping some of the wood out back.'

Idle hands and idle thoughts were how you got trapped in a bar like her momma's. So, Jo worked harder than she'd ever worked before, made more in tips than she'd ever made, and maybe that was just because the men with wives knew the sadness in her eyes and the boys who liked her ass hoped that they could wipe the frown off of her lips.

Maybe it was because she worked hard and spoke only a little bit, asking type of questions that nice girls didn't ask.

*****

"Did you know her name?" asked Jo. She was wiping down a table, putting the pint glasses into a black plastic tub, but watching Mac with the same look that the Winchesters gave everyone.

"The girl that used to live in your house?" Mac passed a beer across the bar to their last customer, a middle aged man who came in every payday like clockwork to drink away most of it.

Once, he tried to just pass over his whole check and Mac had to toss him out, almost as rough as he was with the boys who grabbed Jo's breasts.

"Yeah," Jo said.

Mac always had a strange open look on his face, the pocked skin making him look older than he was, but the way his eyes went down to the glasses he was straightening was almost guilty. He lined up the pitchers and cleared his throat.

"Layla," he said, finally. He shook his head. "Layla Jones."

Jo remembered the grave, _Layla Jones. Loving sister and daughter._

She started putting up chairs for sweeping.

"We used to say, 'Layla Jones, go lay your bones.'" Mac laughed and it caught her off guard, she turned and he'd come up behind her and for a second she was terrified that he'd reach out and touch her.

She jerked away from him, but he didn't seem to notice, started putting up chairs on the nearest table. Inside her chest, her heart hurt and she slowed her breathing down by closing her mouth, forcing it silent.

He wouldn't touch her, not with someone else there, not with... No. He just wouldn't touch her.

"I don't even know what that means. Just something that kids say, I guess," Mac said, eventually.

Jo nodded, managed a close-mouthed sound of agreement. She left early, said something about tired, back tomorrow, get here early. Mac shrugged it off, let her have her space and once she was in the car, she ground the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Layla's hand was on the back of her neck, cool and soothing and Jo said, "Thanks."

Slowly, she started the car and pulled out of the lot, watching the road behind her for headlights, watching to make sure that no one was following.

She didn't bother to take off her jeans or shirt, just yanked off her boots and crawled under the covers, pulled a blanket over her head.

"It's different with the guys that just come in for drinks," Jo said. "They've always been winking and pinching and grabbing. And Mac's a nice guy, he'd never do anything like that."

Sam was a nice boy, too.

Jo pulled the quilt down and stared at Layla. The bed didn't shift under Layla's weight, and the house seemed to be holding its breath. Jo wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her cheek against her knees, felt cramped and terrified at the same time.

Across the bed, Layla blinked her bright blue eyes and waited.

Jo rolled over and ignored the goosebumps rising on her back as Layla rubbed small circles over her shoulder blades.

*****

end


End file.
